


Fight Club

by Captain_Panda



Series: Growing Pains [5]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, M/M, Old School UST, Pre-Relationship, Roughhousing, Sparring, Team Bonding, Teambuilding, Wrestling, tomfoolery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23807992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: The only rule is: there are no rules!Or: Tony discovers S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Fight Club, and wants in.Alternative summary: "Take off the shirt; let's go a few rounds."
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Growing Pains [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707091
Comments: 31
Kudos: 120





	Fight Club

**Author's Note:**

> Why are these getting longer? :D Oh well, I can't say I'm displeased--on the contrary, I'm very happy with how this one turned out. Hope you enjoy! I'll see you in the next one, and thank you so much for all the kind remarks on previous installments. You guys are amazing and I'm glad you're having as much fun as I am.
> 
> -Cap'n Panda
> 
> P.S. If you're following along with this 'verse, this installment is chronological and takes place shortly after the previous installment; if you're not, this installment takes place in an amorphous AU timeline after _Iron Man 3_ and before _The Winter Soldier_. <3

Tony Stark: genius, billionaire, playboy, dirty boxer.

In the field, he took no prisoners. As far as he was concerned, it was better to be alive than polite. Leave the art to the professionals. He’d gladly throw an elbow to the face and live to be told off than take a bullet to the teeth. In a firefight, it was winner-take-all.

Using the key he’d filched from Clint Barton to access the private gym, he could admit that he may have underestimated the art of professional dirty boxing. 

He knew that S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t train their agents like their Army compatriots, but it was one thing to see black-suited rookies in action, and another to see the _elites_. Low-ranking agents were grunt labor; the elites were the real moneymakers, and the quality of their work reflected that. They weren’t combat shooters with basic training; they were _martial artists_ , capable of adapting to any situation with stunning lethality, like the human body was merely a vessel for punching, kicking, and suplexing.

Sure as shit was satisfying to watch, Tony thought, as—in the middle of an old school boxing ring—Natasha Romanoff flipped Steve Rogers over her head and onto his back. He’d seen the move before, inflicted on his own hapless bodyguard. The outcome this time around surprised him when, instead of wheezing for breath and tapping out, Steve curled his lower body upward and rolled them over, one hand keeping her scissor hold from choking him out. He even managed to pin her down briefly, just for one millisecond of triumph, before Romanoff jabbed an unforgiving hand against the cradle of his throat. Seizing the brief window of escape, she rolled neatly to her feet and side-kicked him. He caught the foot, flipped her, and, still red-faced, dragged her under him, narrowly blocking a knee to the groin.

They paid him absolutely no mind, Tony reflected in a mixture of amazement and amusement, as he ventured deeper into the room, its subdued ambient lighting reminding him of an underworld boxing club, the loud click of the door behind him reinforcing the idea of _members only_. Staying near the wall, he gave the ring as wide a berth as the room would permit. There were lockers, a handful of chairs, even a couple punching bags, but what really caught his eye were a truly eclectic assortment of knives, bottles, bricks, and other real and improvised combat weapons, the ultimate assassin’s playground, stacked haphazardly along the wall. Were those _sais_?

He glanced over sharply when he heard a loud smack as bodies hit the floor, unable to tell who had suplexed, tossed, or simply rolled whom—could have been either, honestly, but Romanoff was slippery as hell, ducking _out_ of the ring, and, using the two-foot drop to her advantage, launching herself in at completely different point, always easier to spectate than participate, he mused, tactfully scampering on top of one of the lockers, like an improvised bleacher, so he could sit back and relax without worrying about being in the killing zone. 

Smart move, too: “What’re you doing here, Stark?” Romanoff called out, sounding a little out of breath but otherwise dauntless, as clear a sign as any that they’d been at it for a while. Cap sure didn’t look tired, just ruffled, gaze never veering from his target even as she locked eyes pointedly with Tony, just for a moment. Tony didn’t have time to drawl, _I don’t like closed doors_ before a knife planted itself _exceedingly_ close to his left foot, and he knew with absolute surety that if it had been intended to land, it would have.

Rather than crying out in alarm, too stunned to react in time, he twitched belatedly, nearly losing his perch, but he felt no fear. He felt utterly—weirdly—confident that there wasn’t a second blade about to embed itself into his neck, and his suspicions were proven right at the resumption of the tissued bony _thump_ of blocked strikes and retaliatory hits that promptly filled the pit as they went at it again. 

It sounded painful, but a surreptitious glance revealed it wasn’t meat being pulverized but professional boxing, freestyle—no gloves, no kiddy handholding, just brutal jabs and unforgiving uppercuts. He almost chimed in, _That’s not regulation_ , when Romanoff drove a knee into Steve’s abdomen, but he’d already knocked it downward before they resumed a lightning-quick exchange of blows that numbered in the twenties before Romanoff separated them with a powerful push-kick and a surprising declaration of, “Good.”

Leaning forward to pry the knife from the locker, Tony admired the _heft_ to it—good balance, smooth edge, would have slotted very neatly between his ribs, there wasn’t an inch of plaster on it, nothing _practice_ about it. It was a weapon, fully action-ready, and it was ready to kill. He felt equal parts sobered, touched, and exhilarated to be on the receiving end of an assassin’s genuine, if playful, lethality.

There was a sudden, audibly annoyed pounding on the metal doors, and in the pit, Romanoff spared a, “Leave it,” while Steve huffed:

“Your move, Romanoff.”

She pulled out another knife, the exact same as the one in Tony’s hand, and he thought, _I do not envy you_ , even though it seemed to work in Steve’s favor, one arm extended, blocking every blow as they moved, every bit as superhumanly fast as her skillset and his serum permitted. The pounding on the outermost doors didn’t let up, so, sensing a rare opportunity to be charitably useful, Tony slid off the lockers—knife tucked _very_ carefully in his belt—and sauntered over.

Oddly enough, he _knew_ exactly who stood behind them. The weight, the pitched annoyance was familiar. _Legolas_. “Password?” he called.

There was a very audible pause in the knocking. “Oh, fuck you,” came the very muffled reply, tinted with laughter.

Loathe to keep his eyes off the fight any longer, Tony opened the door manually, just enough for Hawkeye to get a toehold, looking decidedly irked at being locked out and amused at the reason. “I fucking knew it,” he declared. “I said to myself, _What kind of guy_ , and of course it’s fucking _Stark_ —”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” Steve growled from the ring, deadly and low, catching Romanoff’s blade hand and letting out a short breath when she transferred the blade in one smooth flip to the opposite hand and nicked him. “Or I’ll put you through the floor,” he warned.

“I would like to see you try,” Barton drawled, already shucking off his shirt, like Tony wasn’t there anymore—no, exactly like he was there, pitching the shirt at him, like a coat rack. Tony growled audibly as he balled it up and threw it back at the bastard’s head, but the noise and effect were drowned out by Barton hauling himself into the ring, heedless of the knife fight taking place in the opposing corner. “You call this a _fight?_ ”

“In polite company,” Romanoff replied, letting Steve grab her knife hand, only to jump the blade again to the opposing hand and slice his forearm, a surprisingly deep cut for _play_. It bled onto the mat, not quite a spray but far from the nick Tony expected from harmless fun. Steve let go and she pressed forward, but he blocked, and Romanoff went on, “Don’t get—”

“I know,” Steve grunted.

“Stark,” Barton barked, and Tony twitched, involuntarily lingering near the door, his speedy escape. Sure, it was fun to get a glimpse of the underbelly of the world, to see the barely regulated training that S.H.I.E.L.D. authorized in action, but it was another to be _involved_. He was a spectator, not a—“Put up or shut up.”

To hell with it. “You should know,” Tony said, stripping off his own shirts and sauntering over, heart beating fast not in panic or dread but an odd mixture of anticipation and _joy_ — _batter up_ , “I don’t play by the rules.”

“Good,” Barton said, looking at him briefly, one sweeping glance that didn’t even linger on the reactor. Amazingly nonreactive—Tony’s impression of the man improved substantially as he clambered over the line. “Nobody’s gonna hold your hand here. You get locked down, you’re out. Good news is—you’re not the target. Bad news is—” He nodded at where Steve had prowled to a corner, Romanoff ducking out of the ring, “he is.”

The target definitely didn’t seem to care about either of them, mirroring Romanoff’s movements, keeping distance between them while planting his attention squarely on Barton, on _Tony_ , intent, provocative. There was no question a frontal attack against him was about as likely to succeed as charging a bull, and they all knew it—Romanoff was setting up the attack, and the way Steve moved, he knew it, back to her but shifting with her to keep her in range, like a satellite honing in, small adjustments, always moving, hard to zero in on. 

Barton announced, “Give you two seconds,” and Steve took less than one to shuck off his own shirt, bunching it up and chucking it out of the ring, the silver slice mark on the inside of his arm matched by a dozen others like it, little nicks, the faintest purple bruises spattered across his tender underbelly. _Good day not to be the target_ , Tony thought, blinking in surprise when a pair of boxing wraps landed at his feet, not questioning it as he set about getting his hands protected. 

“Do these count as kid gloves?” he asked, making a mournful sound as Barton liberated him of his sweet new assassin knife.

“No,” Barton huffed. His own set of wraps materialized in the space of four seconds—Tony wanted to time him properly, analyze his assassin’s technique for science, but there wasn’t time before, with a flick of his wrist, he launched the knife at Steve, who caught it neatly, not celebrating his triumph for a second before he whirled to deal with the ambush at his back. Dropping the knife in the same spinning movement, he trapped it under a boot, immobilizing the same leg in the process, and Barton was on that leg in a heartbeat.

Barton kicked at the back of his knee hard, and a mortal would have gone down, but not Steve Rogers: he merely twisted, got Barton in a one-armed chokehold, and sent the knife flying with his foot out of the ring, embedding it with truly terrifying force into a wall. Then he grunted as Romanoff dragged his free arm painfully behind his back, forcing a stalemate, and Barton nailed his instep with bruising force, escaping. Romanoff tried to haul him back, but he was strong as hell, resisting, and even with Barton at his front, he wouldn’t be moved, ducking and rolling forward, knocking Barton over and escaping Romanoff in the same practiced movement.

He came up in front of Tony and immediately threw a punch, neither super-fast nor super-hard, and instead of cowering, Tony blocked it. It was oddly exhilarating, like catching the shield itself, even though Tony knew, with absolute surety, that it was not even a tenth of the power Steve could deliver—but Steve wasn’t playing around, there was _weight_ to the punch, he could feel it, could feel the resistance as he boxed back, trading blows, never getting near Steve’s torso, never getting near enough to hurt him but close enough to _strike_ , to _catch_.

It was like training, but it wasn’t the deadly _life-or-death_ pummeling he expected from a guy who was known for ripping steel organisms into their constituent steel organs. His arm _should_ have shattered like kindling, but every blow was perfectly weighted, no stronger than a firm shove, something a trainer would be expected to know, _Don’t hurt your trainees_. It felt real but not punishing, rigorous but not _painful_ , and he found himself pushing harder, faster, trying to get in a single hit beyond Steve’s blocks, to land a real hit and not merely prevent him from one-upping Tony.

He didn’t get a chance before Steve faltered, just a moment, and then, with the force of a very gentle rhinoceros, he used a knee to _shove_ Tony back into the ropes. 

Then Steve fell backwards, crashing into Barton, who went down beneath him, gripping him in a headlock. To his credit, Barton didn’t let up or squeal. Tony knew that Barton weighed a respectable one-hundred-and-eighty pounds, a heavy fighter in his own right, but Steve Rogers was America’s heavyweight champion. He was two-hundred-and-twenty pounds of solid muscle, according to his S.H.I.E.L.D. file, and it didn’t surprise Tony in the slightest when Rogers rolled off him and Barton grimaced, clambering to his feet more slowly. 

Barton didn’t have to worry about a quick roundhouse-kick to the head putting him down, as Steve was distracted by Romanoff’s counterattack, yanking him low and jabbing a cupped hand at his face. He didn’t manage to properly block, not expecting the blow, but he did turn his head, preventing a direct eye jab, and charged her into the ropes, even as he stumbled, Barton’s arm flexing hard where it was curled around his foot.

Sensing a now-or-never opportunity, Tony entertained the safest grab—Steve’s free arm, grappling for Barton, intending to drag him by the hair, if necessary—before, with a nimbleness borne of wearing two-hundred-pound suits of armor seven days a week, he leaped up onto Steve’s back and grabbed his neck, locking his arm around it.

It was clear, immediately, that he would never get enough power to actually choke him out. He could feel the rigidity of Steve’s neck muscles flexing against him, head ducked to trap his arms, everything about him _bull_ tough, almost inhuman, refusing to be cowed by ordinary measures. A moment later, Tony heard a brief crackling noise, discernibly electric, before Steve jerked, steamed out a breath, and Barton let out a hyena cackle even as Steve snorted, “ _Bastard_.”

“All’s fair,” Barton huffed, yowling when Steve crumpled hand and taser under heavy foot, straining under Tony’s hold not to apply too much force in any direction, grunting when Natasha gleefully took advantage of the distraction and hooked her foot around his ankle, yanking forward. 

Unable to pressure Barton _and_ resist Romanoff with one-hundred-and-seventy pounds of lean meat Tony Stark (plus two-point-five-pounds of metallic arc reactor, although, other than digging uncomfortably into his shoulders, Tony couldn’t imagine that weight was particularly devastating) on his back, Steve went down.

He fell forward gracefully, like he’d planned it, landing on his arms. Tony yelped in involuntary alarm at the altitude shift, tightening his grip on Steve’s neck to the point of pain on mere mortals, of which Steve Rogers was decidedly not, because the bastard didn’t merely ignore his life-or-death grip: he planted himself and, in true form, did a _push-up_.

Tony felt Barton’s grip on Steve’s foot relent and knew he could—should—do the same, that it was as clear an _all right, you bastards win_ as they’d informally accept, because there _was_ no winning, and it was equal parts amusing and absurd. _What’s the point? How’s it even end?_ It ended like this—clinging to Steve Rogers’ back for dear life as the bastard did _push-ups_ , monkeying onto his back properly like he was four instead of forty-two.

 _Four, five, six_ , he counted off automatically, grateful that Cap didn’t work up a sweat by mortal means, either, or he might have slid right off his ample shoulders and tapered waist, _nine, ten, eleven_. 

Refusing the graceless exit of falling off Steve’s back, Tony hung on, deciding he’d let go when Steve let him let go, and, hell, he wasn’t exactly _complaining_ , now that he had found a position he himself could hold for a while without feeling like he was about to topple. _I can do this all day_. A huff of laughter bubbled out of him, and that was all it took to halt Steve. He folded like a tiger, lying flat on his belly, seeming to realize the absurdity of their position at nearly the same moment. _Twenty-two_. He could do better, and he knew Steve literally _could_ do it all day, but he didn’t exactly have time to complain about the cessation before—

“Hey, look at that,” Barton said, and Tony _jerked_ as a bottle of cold water was shaken out over them, scrambling ineffectually away, already damp with it. “Stark wins.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Steve grumbled, leveraging himself to his knees, shaking his head briskly and lunging for Barton, who danced out of the way, empty bottle in hand.

“Looked like you two could cool off,” Barton justified, chucking the bottle out of the ring. “Nobody likes a show-off.”

“That’s rich, comin’ from you,” Steve said, twisting to look at Tony, expression neutral, brow furrowing. “You okay?”

 _Abort mission_. Forcing a tight smile, Tony pitched back, “Sore loser.” Standing, he grimaced at the water dripping over his back, grateful that Barton hadn’t gotten it on his front—he’d been glued to Steve’s back, and yes, he couldn’t justify it as decent teammate behavior, but whatever happened to _no rules_ , anyway?—and stated clearly, “You messed up my fucking hair.” Reaching up to smooth it down, damp with cold water, he turned to Barton, who just grinned a little, arms held out in a _make-me-pay_ gesture.

“You know the rules.”

 _There are no rules_.

Clint Barton wasn’t Steve, and it was oddly therapeutic knowing that, no matter how hard _Tony_ whaled on him, he couldn’t hurt Barton. He was a professional _killer_. He killed people, for a job. There was a zero percent chance Tony could seriously, let alone mortally, wound him.

So Tony smiled the same shark tooth smile, tilted his head on his neck to crack it, and advised, “Touch my teeth and I’ll kill you.”

Barton barked a laugh, and then Tony was on him, throwing himself into an offensive that felt brutal, unfair, even, giving the man no time to prepare, but Barton was instantly ready, and even when Romanoff came up behind Barton with a knife, he was ready for her, too. He tried to push-kick Tony aside, but Tony wasn’t having it, grabbing the foot and shoving _him_ back, setting him off-balance, twisting so he fell. He followed him to the floor, then lost control as Barton rolled on top of him, and a knife appeared dangerously close to his face.

“Guy could lose an eye,” Tony huffed conversationally, while Romanoff made an ambivalent, _c’est la vie_ noise, leaving the knife in the mat and hauling Barton by a foot off him, and he thought, _All yours_ before he realized his mistake as Romanoff pinned him, kneeling on his chest, a flat hand tilting his chin up, a clear indication that, had she wanted to, she could have crushed his throat. Or broken his neck. Or cut it open with that knife of hers. 

There were far too many things she could have done, the helplessness of the moment settling like salt water in his belly as he realized how utterly, completely at her divine mercy he was. It was the antithesis of fighting with Steve, even Barton’s _Somebody’s gonna get hurt but nobody’s supposed to die_ brawling attitude. She made her move and it was to kill. Plain and simple. No fuss, no muss. No playful attitude, here.

He held his breath, heart pounding in his chest. Then she rolled off him, prim and proper, and he stayed down, afraid a single wrong move would be the end, that she would change her mind and he wouldn’t be able to stop her, a mouse caught by an owl. Barton laughed, gave his foot a shake, and said, “Yeah, she’ll introduce you to God. Get up.”

Breathing shallowly, Tony straightened, feeling obscenely paranoid, like a knife would sprout from his chest, his throat, his tender underbelly at any moment. 

Then, to his utter astonishment, a warm, heavy arm curled around him from behind, lifting him up like he weighed nothing, setting him on his feet. He blinked, expecting to feel terrified in Captain America’s hold—Steve was nearly double her size and had the capacity to be far more lethal; she had knives but he could rent _skin_ , could shred and tear and distort like bones were silly putty to be remolded—but leaning into it instead, grateful beyond words for a friend in the ring. Fancy that. 

Steve was still damp, not with sweat but with drops of hot water—warmed by his own flesh, unlike the cold sweat in Tony’s own hair, and Tony resisted the strong urge to turn in his arms and huddle against him like a scared little boy, very aware that that was exactly what Barton expected, what Romanoff maybe even wanted. They wanted him to run away, run away and never return. Except—no, they didn’t. _No kid gloves_. They wanted him to play ball with them, _like_ them—fearlessly, deafeningly, to a degree that defied rationality.

Straightening—and he thanked his lucky stars that Steve didn’t try to hold him, or he never would have been able to step forward—he said clearly, “More of a _Wing Chun_ guy, myself.” It was old school Kung Fu, the one martial art form that felt supremely natural to him. Fist-fighting was a principled thing, unlike the rough and tumble anything-goes Krav Maga, and it required serious training and practice, but, once engrained, it came back immediately—as instinctual as Cap throwing a punch and him blocking and returning it.

“Wait till you learn _Sambo_ ,” Barton said, yelping when, in the span of one half-second, Romanoff tackled him, rolled him, and pinned him to the floor. He was ready in a heartbeat, but she had him in a tight lock. Tony didn’t think it was possible to escape—except, apparently, it was, a second, backwards roll producing the desired result as, with his bulk clearly aiding him, Barton managed to escape her pin. “Hell of a—sport,” he wheezed, only halfway up, locked in a ground tussle. “Russians—play—ball,” he added between attempts to get her up, get himself up, and/or untangle them. He was firmly pinned, and he let out another hyena cackle, facedown on the mat, as he admitted, “ _And_ it’s kinky. _Ow!_ ”

Wheezing ineffectually for breath, he tried to get up, but he was done for, and Tony shot Steve a meaningful look, who made a show of examining his fingernails. “Sambo,” he said, his accent different, decidedly Russian, “is Russian mixed martial arts. Best of the best.” Flicking his gaze over Tony once, he shrugged and added, “Kind of floor wrestling. Kind of like Judo.”

“Captain America knows _Judo_?”

Steve’s smile was wolfish. “Captain America knows _Wing Chun_.” Ignoring Barton’s entreating noise from the mat, Steve gestured Tony forward with a hand and then, with a fluid, surprisingly unthreatening movement, he lifted his right leg and pressed his foot against Tony’s abdomen, the weight behind it like a brick wall. “Muay Thai. Like Taekwondo, bit more field-oriented. Be surprised how much you can do with a well-placed kick,” he explained.

Tony held onto his boot with both hands, the weight behind it startling—he doubted he’d be able to even _walk_ in Cap’s shoes, quite literally, let alone fight. The handicap seemed odd, but Steve just said, “Better balance,” and seemed to mean it, bringing his foot down slowly enough that Tony got the memo and let go before he was taken to the floor with it. “That’s _savate_. French kickboxing.”

Pointedly, Steve added at the duo still on the mat, “You know, if you kill him, _we_ have to pay for dinner.”

Romanoff let out a long-suffering sigh, but she released Barton and rolled off him. “Damn you,” she said, cuffing Steve on the head in passing before hopping out of the ring. Barton whimpered on the floor. “You’re buying.”

“That’s fair,” Steve rumbled, still looking at Tony, at—Tony folded his arms, and Steve dropped his gaze pointedly, tips of his ears red. “You okay?” he asked again.

Automatically, Tony looked at Steve’s chest, like he would see a mirror image of the reactor, then flicked his gaze down to his own chest, the reactor bright blue and shiny new as always. “Good as new,” he assured, chafing a hand along his arm to get the residual feel of cold water off it, an involuntary shudder working through him. 

Steve stepped closer, just one rocking step, almost like he was shifting his weight on his feet, providing an easy out. Tony hesitated, but Romanoff had left them entirely to their own devices, and Barton was still clambering slowly to his feet—so Tony ducked in and cuffed him under the chin companionably. “Constant vigilance,” he warned, when Steve blinked, stupefied, at him, teeth clicking a little as his jaw snapped shut.

Tony didn’t get to enjoy his one-up for long, though, before Steve hooked an arm around his neck, reeling him in close, holding him in the loosest of headlocks. “You know what, Stark?” he murmured, releasing him as Barton huffed and turned to them.

With an affectionate rumpling of his hair, a big paw of a hand gently shoving his head away, Steve stepped forward, away from him, and casually side-kicked Barton’s feet out from under him. Landing solidly on his back, Barton looked up as Steve planted a boot on his chest and warned, very seriously, “You can chew on my ear all day. You keep your hands off my guy—off’a Stark. You hear?”

Evidently deigning not to tease with the threat of broken bones pressing quite literally down on him, Barton nodded once and said, “Sorry, Cap.” Then: “Sorry, Stark.” He held up a hand, pinky finger extended, and assured, “I’ll be good.”

Steve looked down at him for a moment longer, waiting until he lowered his hand before moving his foot and even extending a hand, helping him up. “Didn’t think you’d be interested in this sort of thing,” Steve added, addressing Tony but glaring pointedly at Barton even as he slinked off, noticeably cowed. “You never return Fury’s calls.” Fishing in his pocket, he produced a keycard and added, “Can get you a copy, if you’d like. The more the merrier.”

“You know _arnis_?” Barton asked hopefully. “Been dying for a partner.”

“Stick fighting, right?” Barton made a noise that was half- _oh fuck you_ and half- _technically yes_. With a shrug, Tony said, “No, but I’m a fast learner.”

“Be better at Judo,” Steve said, looking after Barton, who made a noise that was half- _that’s fair_ and half- _don’t step on my dick_.

“Who uses Judo outside the ring? It’s a nice guy’s sport. I vote Sambo,” Barton insisted.

Steve sighed. “I know you do.” Looking at Tony with a rueful smirk, he added, “Can’t say it isn’t fun, but it’s not exactly a—” Cutting himself off—Tony could almost hear the _beginner martial art_ and knew the argument that would ensue—he redirected diplomatically, “It’s pretty heavy. Besides, how many guys you wanna wrestle in the mud in the field?”

“Depends.” Reclaiming his shirt, Barton replied, “How deep is the mud?”

“Exactly.” Bright-eyed, Steve looked at Tony and added, “You’re in? Really?” He looked like a dog who’d dug up a big bone in the field, and Tony felt a twinge in his chest at the thought of denying him, even though the realization of committing to the cause—of _learning martial arts_ —was a bit _much_.

“Um,” he started, and had the dubious privilege of watching some of the spark vanish in Cap’s gaze as he blinked, once, switching immediately back to businesslike as he nodded to himself.

“Right.” A beat. “Civilian.” It was an odd declaration, a line in the sand.

One Tony could not let stand. 

Affronted, he reminded emphatically, “ _Avenger_.” Then: “I know Judo. And Wing Chun.” Fussing with a locker, Barton paused to look over at him. Steve looked at Tony very soberly, neither judgmental nor dismissive. Tony fidgeted under their gazes, very aware that he had broken into their little private gym, uninvited. “What more do I need?” he grumbled. “That’s two more martial arts that most people know.”

“It is,” Steve agreed neutrally. He walked off; Tony jerked as his own shirt landed squarely on his shoulder, reaching for it after a beat. “And you got that suit of armor.”

“Wish I had a suit of armor,” Barton mused. Fishing deep in the locker, he grumbled aloud, “Where the hell is my _key_?”

Feeling small and unwelcome as he watched Steve tug a shirt on, Tony mourned the sudden return to normalcy—reality as he thought aloud, a touch plaintively, “I don’t like kickboxing.”

“Not everyone does,” agreed Steve.

“More of a grappler, myself,” Barton said, looking prepared to deep-dive into the locker, already most of the way inside it. “Unbelieva—”

With a defeated shrug, Tony fished the card out of his pocket, whistling once sharply to gain their attention. 

He enjoyed both of their gazes returning to him, dumbfounded. The genuine surprise lasted for a long beat. Then a broad grin split Barton’s face. “How?” he demanded. “I thought Cap let you in.”

“Tony,” Steve began, soft, rebuking, but there wasn’t much anger behind it, even as Barton stepped forward, shaking his head and extending a hand towards the ropes.

“I want one,” Tony said, very seriously, still standing in the middle of the ring, shirt slung over one shoulder, holding Clint Barton’s fight club keycard in hand like the keys to the city. “Capiche?”

Barton laughed. Steve sighed. “Tony,” he repeated, in that same, _Buddy, pal, you don’t have to jump into the volcano, he was kidding_ voice while Tony, realizing how _epic_ it would be to jump into a volcano, wagged the card back and forth tauntingly, mind made up. 

_They don’t call me volcano-jumper for my health_.

“Capiche?” he insisted.

“Keep it,” Barton said, sealing the deal, turning back to Steve and saluting. “Can’t wait to kick _someone’s_ ass at Sambo.”

Gaze narrowing, Steve warned, “Now hold on a—” But Barton cackled, and even Tony couldn’t resist a slight smile at how put out Steve looked, like Barton had threatened to steal his favorite ride for the weekend and total it. Which, maybe, a hell of an analogy—sliding the stolen keycard into his pocket and the shirt over his head, Tony startled violently when Steve materialized in the ring in front of him, the door sliding shut behind Barton.

“You don’t have to do this.” The way Steve said it, earnest and concerned, really _did_ make it sound like Tony was about to jump into a volcano.

 _Sweetheart, I already did_. Not particularly wanting to get in a real fight of a different nature, Tony assured, “I’m an adult. I can make adult decisions.” Holding out a hand, he watched Steve’s brow furrow before he stepped forward, allowing Tony to weave a hand in his shirt, tug him forward a little, not quite a hug, not quite _not_. Just holding. After a moment of uncertainty, sensing that Tony would go no further, Steve shuffled another rocking almost not-step forward, and slung both arms around him, firmly declaring it a _hug_. 

_I want the record to show, he started it_ , Tony thought, gratefully pressing his face against his shoulder. “Besides,” he added, pulling back after a long beat, feeling stabilized, grounded, looking at liquid blue eyes hopefully, “what better way to learn than to get my hands dirty?”

Sighing, Steve said a third time, “Tony.” He didn’t bother finishing the sentence, sliding up a hand to squeeze the back of his neck once, lightly, ruffling his hair a little in the process, and Tony hid away again, and Steve held him there, and it was—honestly heavenly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so secure, like he was truly untouchable. Nobody could lay a hand on him, not with Cap on his side. Hell of a thought.

“I like Muay Thai,” he admitted against the meat of Steve’s shoulder, speaking so against it the words were almost muffled beyond comprehension. “But only in the suit. More power. Better balance. Kickboxing’s—not really my thing, on the ground.”

“Mm.” Steve sifted a hand through his hair, nails scratching the lightest bit, and he nearly melted against him. “That’s fair. I don’t like Sambo. Feels like I could really hurt somebody. All you need is to apply a bit too much pressure,” he curved a hand around Tony’s neck, but instead of impressing animal fear like the flat hand Romanoff put against his throat, there was no fear, no sense of dread or helplessness. He wouldn’t hurt him. It just wasn’t who Steve was, wasn’t what Captain America _did_. “One wrong move and it’s not fun and games. Wing Chun, Taekwondo—I can gauge.”

Stepping back, with only a taste of reluctance in the air—and a pleasant, indefinable feeling in his chest as Steve’s hold didn’t break quite so easily, resisting just for a moment—Tony said, “Yeah, I can tell.” Without warning, he threw a punch, Wing Chun style, a smooth fluid movement that, just as effortlessly, Steve blocked. “See, you’re good.”

“Weeks with dummies,” Steve admitted dryly, retaliating in slow motion, deliberately languorous, and Tony mirrored the speed, not the flurry of movements that would work up a sweat but a more leisurely back-and-forth, conversational. “Had to get a handle on what would kill a man before I went in the ring with one.”

Tony caught and held his arm, just hard enough that Steve got the memo, paused. “Did you?”

Steve’s expression clouded over, the easy lightness evaporating as he added, “You think I would?”

Tony thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “No.” Seriously, he repeated, “No. You wouldn’t. You’re too noble.” Throwing another punch, slow, steady, he added, “I’m not. I kill people. When I get in a fight. You guys are—above my level.” The words tasted like sour candy. Steve caught his hands, held both of them, immobilizing him gently.

“Not a chance,” he said seriously, so emphatically that Tony knew he believed it. “More trained, maybe. But not by much. When I first came in, I knew how to fire a gun, slug a guy, and take a punch. Took eight weeks to do this right,” he hooked a gentle foot around Tony’s ankle, but he didn’t tug, the threat understood. “Can’t do that to a dummy. Lot to learn. My job is to _not_ kill people.” Projecting his movements with reassuring slowness, he pulled Tony close and, when Tony didn’t fight him, folded him into a very loose headlock, emphasizing in a rumble Tony could feel, “I’m never scared for me. I’m scared for the other guy.” Pointedly loosening his grip further, he let Tony duck out from under his arm, looking right at him and adding, “It’s play for them. It’s never play for me.”

Blinking, surprised at the simple sobriety of the statement, Tony said, “Then why do you—”

Smiling ruefully, Steve said, “Because we’re a team. Because I need it.” Looking him up and down, he added soberly, “Because I can’t protect people if I don’t know how to fight, and the only way to learn how to fight _is_ to fight.” Then, with a small, almost shy smile, he admitted, “We do have fun. They’re good. They’re really good. I don’t have to worry, much.”

Tony could read the writing on the window: “But you worry with me.”

Steve frowned. “No, I—”

Holding up a hand, Tony said seriously, “You’re a terrible liar.” The furrow in Steve’s brow deepened, and he looked ready to argue, but Tony assured, “I don’t need to get in a brawl every week to feel alive.” With a tilt of his head, he added wryly, “Maybe on special occasions, but—I’m happy to sit on the sidelines, pick up some pointers. Learn.” Defying his own declaration, he delivered a short but powerful push-kick. Steve actually stumbled a step, not expecting it, looking at him like he’d—well, like he’d _kicked him_ , gently, but also like he’d told him that it was _okay_ , in a way that words couldn’t. _I can play ball_. “Keep you on your feet, you know?”

Steve still looked unsure, just for a moment, before Tony teased, “Teach me.”

Steve blinked once, a long, slow thing. “What?”

“Teach me,” Tony insisted. “Judo, Muay Thai, hell I’ll _Sambo_ , I’m not a—” Shrugging, he tucked his arms over his chest and finished, “I’m Iron Man. I should know how to fight like him.”

“Already do,” Steve said seriously, but he cocked his head at Tony thoughtfully, looking him over, stepping back to evaluate him. “Make a good boxer.”

Tony grinned, flashing teeth, and said, “Boy, you know me so well.”

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to Godzillarex on YouTube for phenomenal "Avengers fighting style" videos, which provided excellent "Baby's First Martial Arts Fic" material for this story. Wouldn't have known was "Sambo" was without it! I highly recommend checking out the "Captain America," "Black Widow," and "Iron Man" fighting style videos.


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